A letter to...

Friday 6 June 2008 19.09 EDT
First published on Friday 6 June 2008 19.09 EDT

We get on so well now. We've always been close, and now things are fine we don't talk about the past, our teenage years. I want to ask if you know what you put me through; how those years were ruined. I'm not sure that you do. I don't blame you, my little brother, I've always been protective of you and we all tried to put on a brave face. We all thought that we were so ordinary, so normal, and eating disorders barely registered in our minds, let alone as something that could happen to our family, to our only brother.

You were the quiet one; everyone always said you were so well behaved. Is that why we didn't notice for so long? Teenage boys become secretive, our parents thought. All the other boys your age wore baggy clothes. When the doctor at the hospital told us you had three weeks to live, we were shocked into silence, united in guilt. I remember being dumbfounded. Was it our fault? Our parents were so devastated; they blamed each other. I remember lying awake at night, hearing them arguing about the mistakes they must have made. Surely we were all brought up the same? My world fell apart.

My little brother, I had failed to protect you. We blamed ourselves, but we never blamed you. You were too ill, too fragile to blame. Your struggle became ours. It was so hard for us to talk about it, even to each other let alone outside the family. Anorexia nervosa was something that happened to girls in soap operas, not to people we knew and certainly not to a 15-year-old boy.

In retrospect, your behaviour was easier to analyse. Avoiding meals by saying you had eaten with friends, or always first in the bathroom after meals and first thing in the morning. Going for long bike rides and runs, nothing it seemed that revealed the truth. So secretive you were, or so unobservant we were, the truth didn't come out until you collapsed at school and had to be taken to hospital, weighing six stone. At school, no one had noticed either.

Your road to recovery was so long and so hard, sometimes it seemed as if you would never get better. Five years of your life eaten up by battling demons; in and out of therapy and hospital; the family therapy to help us understand. I remember the day you finally came home for good, I was so scared, and all I wanted was to protect you. The family therapist never blamed any of us individually. But I wanted to repair my relationship with you and help you get on with your life. To let you know I never blamed you. To know that you didn't blame or resent me.

Those long years shaped my life so much - now I'm finishing my degree to become a psychologist - to help others, like the doctors who saved your life. I hope you are happy now and I know you're doing well, and doing what you want. You're not just my brother but one of my best friends, and I wish we could sit down and talk about it. It may be too soon, but I'd like to feel it won't just be brushed under the carpet for ever. Our parents would like to forget that time but the truth is that it is such a huge part of your life and who you are, I feel that to ignore it would harbour resentment in you. The family therapist told us you'd probably battle an eating disorder in some form for the rest of your life. I want us to be able to talk about it, to prevent any bad feelings that could spoil our relationship. There are still questions I'd like to ask - to know that you don't blame me or, if you ever did, if there was more I can do, or could have done. Anonymous

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